panic switch
by maybe now
Summary: "He's not going to deny that he'd rather she wake up bridal style in his arms, but she's a hell of a lot easier to move draped across his shoulders in a fireman's carry." (in which a day spent walking through the forest with just Clarke goes wrong, as everything does with Bellamy)


**AN: **late post, this has been up on ao3 for awhile now. I figured that I'll try to keep these two accounts consistent.

All I'm wondering is how long it'll be before Bellamy and Clarke are back together. And if they'll hug when they're reunited. It's a question that's spawned a thousand fic.

for this one, this is some canon-divergence type thing. or like, MW happened but a lot in the past and Bellamy and Clarke are up to their normal leadership ways and don't think/talk about Mount Weather.

* * *

><p><em>when will I ever be safe from myself, if the danger all lies between heaven and hell.<em>  
><em>when I close my eyes, I'm not falling asleep, I am opening drawers, I am sifting through papers.<em>  
><em>please stay awhile, I'm not falling asleep, I'm not falling asleep, I'm not falling asleep.<em>

-I'm Not Falling Asleep by Andy Shauf

-_panic switch_-

They've gotten themselves into this because of his selfish desires.

If she was back at camp like she could've been before he asked her on this stupid trip, maybe she would still be conscious.

Gulping down another lungful of air, Bellamy carefully shifts Clarke's limp body as he hustles through the trees in the fading daylight.

He's not going to deny that he'd rather she wake up bridal style in his arms, but she's a hell of a lot easier to move draped across his shoulders in a fireman's carry.

Clarke is by no means a large girl, vertically or horizontally, but he has no idea how long he's going to be carrying her until he finds somewhere safe for them to wait this out.

He tries not to worry, but it's all he can fucking think about as he pushes himself to move faster between the trees. She's been out for 5 minutes at least, and he's no doctor—he doesn't know why she fainted, only knows that Princess probably has the worst fucking timing in history to lose consciousness right before a grounder horn sounded.

He couldn't guess how long she was going to be out and they didn't have time to wait. So with no other options left, he had pulled her over his shoulders as gently as he could in his haste.

He will never forget Atom and the devastation of the fog.

His breaths come out as shallow pants, sweat sliding down his forehead and making his hands clammy even in the cool weather. He scans frantically, looking for that damn bomb shelter that was on the way back to camp. Clarke knew its location better, and another burst of overwhelming panic hits him as he fervently wishes for her to wake up.

He could have asked anyone to come with him today. Hell, he could've gone by himself—he didn't need anyone to scout with. But there he'd been, thinking that Clarke could use a break from her patients and their leadership responsibilities… and that if he was going to trudge around the unknown for the whole day, he'd rather it be with Clarke than anyone else.

Now look at them.

A small, sharp intake of breath reaches his ears and he almost collapses to the ground of relief when he hears a groan and a mumbled "_what_..." come from the blond wrapped around his shoulders.

He isn't prepared for her to start thrashing against him, his hold probably becoming bruising on her thigh and upper arm as he tries to keep both of them from crashing to the floor.

"Let—me—go!" she's yelling hoarsely, fist pounding against his back.

"Clarke! Clarke calm down—fuck!" he hisses as a particularly violent kick almost has him, them, smashing into the nearest pine tree.

His voice seems to subdue her.

"…Bellamy..?" she says incredulously, and he figures it must be rather disconcerting to wake up as she did.

"Yep," he clips back, eyes still roaming quickly over the landscape, looking for familiar patterns to clue him into the location of that bunker.

They've gotten used to the Grounders' system when it comes to the fog. While the remains of the hundred still aren't sure how to predict it, the first grounder horn usually gives them 10 minutes to find shelter.

They are definitely getting close to that now.

"What…"

"You fainted while we were out, a Grounder horn went off right after, and now I'm trying to find that damn bomb shelter we found last week," he says shortly, trying to tamp down his despair.

There's a few hurried steps of silence before he figures she gets her wits back around her.

"Put me down," she demands, and he can hear her trying to be firm despite the fatigue that clouds her tone.

"Nope," he responds curtly.

"I'm alright," she protests faintly, small hand weakly pushing at his arm. He can feel her head moving against his shoulder. "I haven't been eating enough and I'm dehydrated. I'm not dying, you can let me down."

He scoffs, not breaking his stride or turning his head.

"Clarke, we have maybe minutes until that damn fog is going to hit and we really need to find that shelter otherwise we are going to die out here. If I put you down and you're too weak or pass out again then that's just wasted time."

He feels, more than hears, her huff, her chest pressing more firmly into his back on her exhale.

If this had been any other time, he would probably be fighting a shiver at the feeling, but right now he can't enjoy her body against his since he's too worried about them both fucking dying.

A few more beats of silence and he hopes that she's just hunting for the shelter, and not passed out again. He doesn't think he can handle that.

"There!" she exclaims, her free arm coming into his field of vision and gesturing to his left. He's looking all around and can't find it even though it's probably staring him smack in the face.

"Where did you say it was, Princess?" he asks as he takes his next breath, trying to stay as efficient as possible as they hurry through the forest. It's only occurred to him recently how stupid he sounds now, calling her 'Princess' without the previous venom or contempt in his voice. How dumb he must sound to her. But he can't stop, it's practically ingrained in him.

"That tree, with the low branch that makes it look like a 'y', the hatch is right there."

He spots it, and somehow musters up the energy to sprint the final 50 meters to the entrance.

The slightly rusted metal is right there, and his breathing is ragged as he bends and slides Clarke off his shoulders. He falls right to his knees and begins working the wheel that opens the door.

He's aware of Clarke struggling to sit up next to him, her weight listing into his side as she tries to regain her bearings.

She's probably still dizzy.

Adrenaline is pumping through his veins, heart pounding loudly in his ears as he hauls the metal door open, and he all but shoves Clarke towards the ladder. His head whips around looking for any signs of the fog. It should be coming any second, it should be any second.

"Bellamy!" Clarke calls frantically as soon as there's enough room for him to start his descent, and he hurries down after her. The hatch clangs shut as he lets go of it, submerging them into darkness.

Bellamy sags against the ladder, eyes closing and a breath rushing out of him in relief. He hugs the metal rungs hard, he almost wants to kiss them.

He reaches up, groping for the locking mechanism of the hatch when he feels a hand pat his leg before fingers curl around his calf.

Clarke.

"One second," he says as his hand catches on the raised metal piece.

"Okay it's locked now, Princess. Keep going and light that candle as soon as you get down there," he directs his voice down to the blackness over his shoulder.

"Okay, hang on a second," she responds, squeezing his leg reassuringly before letting go.

He fights back a shiver now, even though there's no way she could see it.

Bellamy hears her feet hit the ground, indicating that he's free to continue his way down the ladder without worrying about kicking her in the head.

He fights the faint urge to laugh when Clarke spits out a few curses as she probably fumbles with the matches. They'd had the good sense to leave on the table right next to the ladder when they left this place before.

She strikes one, and all he has time to take in are the glint off her eyes and the outline of her curly hair before the match finds the candle.

The small but comfortable space is cast in dim light, objects bleeding into form as the candlelight gives them shape. Now that she can see, Clarke is gathering the few other candles, lighting each by sharing from the original flame.

Each lit candle brings her further in to view, defining her profile as he stands, watching, at her side.

It's when she sets down the last one that he catches himself staring.

Why can't he… Why does he always…

Shaking his head, he reacquaints himself with the interior of the shelter. They'd brought back all the usable blankets, pillows, and clothes that remained back to camp the last time they were here, but there is still an old, failing mattress in the corner, along with empty shelves and a few chairs.

His focus snaps back to Clarke as a loud clank rings throughout the enclosed space.

"Clarke!" he exclaims, grabbing her shoulders and righting her from where she half-collapsed onto the table.

"Shit," she groans, hand woozily landing on his chest as she tries to orient herself.

His grip tightens as her eyes flutter open and closed and the only word he can say is "Clarke!" and he's just about to shake her when she manages to keep her eyes open.

There's just enough light that he can see the blue of her irises as her eyes widen.

"Oh," she breathes, and it is only then that Bellamy realizes how close he has gotten to her in his brief moment of panic, so close and hunched towards her that he can feel the end of her quiet exclamation on his lips.

He can't fight his gaze from flickering down to her mouth, and for the hundredth time in at least the past week, wonders what it would be like to kiss her.

He catches himself, shaking his head again and straightens his arms, creating more distance between them.

"Food," is what he manages to say, to which she nods.

"Can you make it to the bed okay or should I help you over there?" he asks, peering into her eyes in case he needs to fetter out a lie if she decides to try for some unnecessary bravado.

"No, I can do it," she says with a soft smile. He's satisfied by her answer and slides his hands down her arms before letting go.

Just because he believes her doesn't mean that he doesn't watch her until she's seated on the mattress without incident.

He fishes out their supplies, calling out to her as he walks to join her.

"Why didn't you tell me you were feeling dizzy? Or that you were hungry? You knew we were going to be out all day, that's why we brought rations."

Now that they're safe and she's awake and he's talking about it, he grows irritated, working himself up, and he's aware of it but he can't stop it. He tries, however, to stay gentle as he hands her the food and bottle of water.

"I mean, you're the one that goes parading around as the camp medic, making sure all of us don't die and take care of ourselves. Jesus, why wouldn't you just stop and grab something to eat? That was just stupid! I wouldn't expect that shit from you, you aren't some fourteen year old boy who's trying to prove man enough to have a gun and get on guard, what do you have to prove—"

"Shut up, Bellamy," she cuts across him forcefully, only crumbs left as she plants her hands flat on the bed and glares up at him. "I'm used to feeling hungry now, I didn't realize how bad it was until too late."

He knows that she says it to make him feel better, knows objectively that they've been short on food since they arrived, but right now all that resonates with him is that he can't even provide enough sustenance for Clarke to stay conscious, that Clarke felt like she couldn't say she needed to take a break and eat in front of him.

"Stop making this about you," she says, still glaring.

He scoffs, crossing his arms across his chest like armor and moving his eyes from her gaze, as if it could keep her from reading him like a damn book.

The more time they've spent together, the more Clarke has seemed to be able to pick apart his every move like his thoughts were written across his damn head in block font.

Unsurprisingly, she's mostly remained a mystery to him, albeit one that's significantly more pleasant to be around than during their tense, beginning days.

"Whatever, Princess," he bites out, irritated that she's right and irritated that he put her in this position in the first place.

Now they're going to be stuck here for the whole night, he thinks as he sits down on the floor next to her legs. Darkness was falling as they entered the shelter and he really doesn't like wandering the woods without a torch at night. Plus who knows when they can risk seeing if the fucking fog went away.

He sighs before helping himself to some of the rations.

For all they know, the camp could be in complete disarray, mass-panicking that could turn into mutinies and coups and it would all be his damn fault.

But honestly, if anyone was to pick one of the two of them to fuck things up, it would be him.

He was known to ruin good things.

One of them should always be at camp. They'd gotten away with it, all those weeks ago on Unity Day, but their co-leadership had been in its infancy at the time and everyone was still getting used to it.

Just because he wanted to spend time with her, just her, without the worries of camp as a constant companion…

Selfish.

She fucking fainted on him and she wasn't even exerting herself on something important, just exploring with him so he didn't have to be alone.

"We're going to have to spend the night here," he intones dully. He feels her shift next to him, legs curling up and onto the bed carefully without touching him.

He glances back at her to find her staring at him from a curled up position on the bed, her arm as her pillow.

His irritation eases as he takes in the image of her hair spread out on the mattress, framing her face.

"Yeah, I know," she replies softly.

He lets out a breath, trying to release his downward spiraling thoughts of familiar and general self-loathing.

"Are you feeling any better?" He realizes he hasn't asked.

Her cheeks seem to heat at the question, and her gaze does seem to stronger, more focused, than when they got down here.

"Yeah," she answers with a small, rueful smile, and his lips can't help but quirk up at her embarrassment.

"That's good," he answers, looking down, and at least there's that much.

He hears her soft sigh as she move around, trying to get comfortable on the bare mattress. Starting, he quickly takes off his jacket, twisting his torso around to throw it over her.

"Bellamy—" she protests, but he only spreads his hand, palm out, at her, and she begrudgingly stops.

He turns back towards the opposite wall and sighs. I'M WORRIED ABOUT YOU AND FEEL GUILTY AND RESPONSIBLE is probably flashing like a neon sign across his forehead. At least she correctly figured that she wouldn't win that argument.

"You should try to get some rest," he says.

He slouches back further against the edge of the bed, trying to get as comfortable as he can while sitting on a cold, concrete floor.

It's quiet for a time, even though Bellamy knows Clarke isn't sleeping from the occasional noises her clothes make as they rub against the mattress when she moves around.

It's the combination of the silence, of the whole day in general, of every fucking second since he shot Jaha on the Ark, since failing both his mom and Octavia and watching one get floated and the other imprisoned based on his own stupid idea.

Fucking stupid ideas.

He doesn't know why these kids trust him to lead them… He's responsible for so many awful moments in his short history that he relives the feeling of them every time before he even considers sleeping.

He intended to kill a man to get on the dropship, to protect Octavia and be with her in case they all died from radiation, yes, but a selfish part of him looks at his actions and sees what he did as a way out, a way out of a dead-end job in a place where everyone knew what he'd done, who his family was, and who was responsible for what had happened.

_Your sister, your responsibility_.

Those words , and the dual images of his mother being sucked into space and her sister being carted off to the cells, will haunt him until he dies, he thinks.

All of the things he's done on Earth to stay alive, creating and stoking an anarchy, sabotaging Raven's radio system and causing 320 people to die…

The number seems so huge, so unreal to Bellamy, but he tries to feel it, tries to contextualize it by multiplying their camp by three and imagining shooting each one.

His head sinks into his hands, sick from the thought.

His breath is uneven as it skitters out from his chest.

He freezes, bristling when a hand sneaks up to rest on his shoulder and jolts him from his thoughts.

"Hey," she murmurs, her voice cutting through the silence in the room and the gunshots in his head.

From anyone else, her touch would seem like a friendly gesture, if he let anyone else touch him like this, potentially see him like this. He'd almost forgotten she's there, let alone that she was probably still awake. But it's Clarke and things never make sense or stay where they're supposed to with her.

"Come lay down. There's room and we'll have all the time in the world to worry about everything tomorrow."

He sighs.

"Bellamy," she quietly admonishes, as if she knows that he was just about to grasp at any reason to stay seated on the ground.

His reluctance is not meant as an insult to her, but he thinks she knows that.

He feels more vulnerable than ever as he meets her eyes, but he lies down on the bed facing her, anyways.

She lets out a hum as he settles in.

"Feels better than the floor, doesn't it?" she says quietly, her tone smug but he can tell she's joking, trying to draw him out of this hole he threw himself down.

He's not ready to joke, still feeling too raw from his brief visit to all his past mistakes, but he does his best to keep up their patterns.

"And here I thought princesses weren't supposed to share their beds with dark strangers," he lobbies back.

It comes off flat, and she just gets this look on her face and he wishes he could've thought of any other stupid thing to say.

His inhale is rushed when her fingers reach out and the tips tentatively brush against his wrist where it rests close to his face.

"I don't think it's like that," is what she murmurs back to him, and he closes his eyes as her touch grows more confident, the pads of her fingers moving back and forth on his wrist.

His exhale is far from clean and easy when he can no longer hold in his breath.

"Clarke," he says thickly, "I…"

But he can't find the right words to say. _I know you've said that you've forgiven me for what I've done but I'm still a horrible person no matter how much I try to make it right? _Or, _I want to be able to touch you so bad but my hands are so dirty that I won't even let myself try?_

Her hand fits to the side of his face, and it feels like a twisted absolution. How can a touch leave him soaring while also making him wish he could sink into the ground and disappear?

He wants her to move her hand away, he wants her to pull him closer, he just…

Her hand moves down his face until her palm rests on the nape of his neck, fingers twining in his hair.

Clarke's eyes are soft as she looks at him. "I was stupid today. It felt so nice to be on our own, away from camp, that I just… forgot. It won't happen again," she finishes with a small smile.

This touching… all this touching is new between them. She's playing with his hair, almost absently, as she gazes at him, and he wishes he knew what she was thinking, what this was to her.

He clears his throat a little, but she doesn't drop her hand. "You think we'll be ousted by the time we get back to camp?" he jokes halfheartedly, trying to find any way to catch his footing in this unexpected situation. He's struggling to find traction here.

Bellamy can't believe she's still touching him so intimately as she tips her head forward, her temple pushing into the mattress near his hand as she muffles her laugh. Simply baffled. He can't relax.

Her hand slips down from his neck, snagging on his chest before once more resting on his hand.

His insides are all twisting at the contact and he wants to touch her, wants to dive his fingers in her hair and pull it back behind her neck, he wants to pull her towards him and under him and kiss her until she can't breathe and fuck her into the mattress until she doesn't know her name or why she shouldn't become involved with him in the first place.

But instead Bellamy exhales tightly through his nose and has a rueful smile in place for when her quick glance catches on his face.

He's so unused to not just taking whatever he wants… But as always, Clarke has managed to sneak onto his list of exceptions.

His hands are itching to reach out, to move. He fists the hand that rests underneath hers to resist the temptation.

Clare may as well be oblivious to all of his inner turmoil and tension as she answers him.

"Octavia is probably sitting like a queen, ordering around all those boys she has wrapped around her finger."

His eyes narrow on reflex. Pain in the ass kids. "They better not be _doing_ anything."

Clarke just rolls her eyes at him, but the way her fingers are tracing the divots of his hand ruins the effect. Does she even realize what she's doing..?

"You know she's with Lincoln," she chastises, and all he can manage is to grumble out his displeasure. Once he had acknowledged how much Octavia was willing to do and risk to sneak out and see that Grounder, he'd eased up on the whole situation, too afraid that Octavia would eventually run off with the man.

"Still don't like it," he what he says, and they lapse into silence.

She closes her eyes, hand still clutching his, and he wonders if she's able to fall asleep so quickly. If she can, he's jealous.

When she shifts and breaks contact is when he loses his control.

His hand nearly encompasses the whole length of her face as he cups her cheek, fingers pushing back stray blonde curls behind her ear, thumb smoothing down her cheekbone. Her skin is so soft against his calloused palm.

Her eyes snap open, and Clarke stares at him with wide-eyed and with bated breath.

Her look of shock has him fumbling. He didn't intend for this to happen and he lets out an articulate "_um"_ as he shakes his head as if it would clear it as he begins to remove his hand.

"I'm sorry—" he starts, but she catches his wrist before he fully slides his hand away.

She's glowering up at him and he doesn't know how he's going to get out of this one. Once Clarke puts her mind to something, it's impossible to deter her. He never thought someone else could match the patented Blake stubbornness, but she makes a good run.

"Funny. I expected you would be the type to follow through." Her comment has bite to it, and her bringing up the reputation he fostered when they'd first landed just makes him more certain that this is the wrong thing, that by resisting he is ultimately doing right by her.

He doesn't want it to be like that with her. And that's all he's ever shown anyone he can do.

"Clarke," he sighs, and he needs more room, needs more space because their faces, their lips are all too close like this and there's only so much he can resist when he knows that she wants him, even in the basest of ways.

He rolls onto his back.

Because he's an idiot, he doesn't account for Clarke's tight grip on his wrist. His momentum pulls her across his body as his wrist returns to his opposite side.

It leaves Clarke hovering over him, hair falling over one of her shoulders as she stares down at him.

He curses himself. This is just worse than before, because now she feels like she's in control, like she's got him pinned down and on the spot. He tries to refrain from thinking about power plays, about how easily he could flip them over and have her arching into him as he pushes her wrists into the bed.

She's trying to read him, he can tell. He can tell that she wants to know why he's reluctant but it's too embarrassing to verbalize. He doesn't even know what he would say.

_I want to but you deserve better, you're too good and I'm too far gone and you deserve better than me I would ruin you—_

It must play on his face and she becomes annoyed.

"God, I'm sick of this 'irredeemable' act, Bellamy—"

"It's not an _act, _Clarke, you know better than anyone—!"

"We've been over this before, I _forgive_ you, I _understand _you, I _trust_ you!"

She punctuates her words by pushing the wrist in her grasp further and further into the mattress.

She's exasperated with him and not for the first time he wonders why she bothers. They've been dancing around this for weeks.

"I know. I know, Clarke," he sighs, and if his hand was free he would run down his face. "God, but that can only go so far. Enough for me to stay, enough for me to be able to stand up next to you, but it's not enough, I don't think it's enough…"

He trails off, because even though he's firm in his convictions, his longing for her won't allow him to hammer the nail in the coffin by vocalizing it.

At his admission, she just… deflates, slumping down against his chest and releasing his arm. She's draped across him now, and he thinks he's going to have to tape his hands into fists if he's going to continue to not touch her when she's this close.

"Fine," she concedes, picking up that he's unwilling to give much ground in this fight.

"But…" she hesitates, one hand smoothing up his chest and resting on his heart. "…then just hold me, at least, can you just forget for tonight and hold me at least."

Clarke never really asks for much of anything, and he doesn't know if he can deny her when she sounds like the wrong words uttered from him will crush her.

"Okay, Princess," he murmurs, and gathers her up into him. It feels like a cheap victory, like he cheated to win and backstabbed everyone he knew to feel the little bit of pleasure from winning, because she thinks this is her victory but it really just plays right into his hands, the part of him that could give two shits about being noble.

She hums, a contented little sound that barely reaches his ears and more like vibrates through his chest.

His spread hand spans most of her back, and he's fascinated and terrified by the way she feels against him, as she adjusts and gets more comfortable.

Any amount of time could have passed as he tries to memorize the feeling, because he's unsure if this will ever happen again. One of them will come to their senses.

His fingers have been incessantly stroking her hair, and he thinks she may have drifted off in between two of the candles flickering out.

She's safe and warm, trusting, in his arms. Her breathing is even, her exhales skating across his collarbone. The hand on his chest is fisted in his shirt, one leg kicked across his.

He tries to let his thoughts only be of her, to only think about Clarke being with him in such an innocent way as a desperate attempt to keep his overflowing mistakes from drowning him before falling into an uneasy sleep.

Maybe, if he shuts his eyes this time, he'll be okay.


End file.
